


Divisions

by zeldadestry



Category: Nikita (TV 2010)
Genre: Community: 100_women, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-23
Updated: 2011-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 23:49:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no one who really cares now when Alex gets hurt, no one who wants to check over her cuts and bruises and make sure she’ll be ok.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divisions

**Author's Note:**

> prompt 97, "writer's choice", for 100_women fanfic challenge

There’s no one who really cares now when Alex gets hurt, no one who wants to check over her cuts and bruises and make sure she’ll be ok.

Meetings with contacts are sometimes scheduled to happen in crowds, at busy clubs or restaurants. Alex plays her part, puts on eyeliner and lipstick, a little black dress to shows off her curves, and heels to flaunt her legs. She stands near the bar, holding her martini glass by the stem, and her eyes only glance over all of the people who pass by her and stare. Sometimes couples catch her attention, rivet it, really, because of a certain expression she recognizes on both their faces, the way they never take their hands off each other.

She’s in rural Maryland when it finally happens. She returns to the farmhouse where she’s staying and finds the kitchen door hanging open. She draws her gun, points it at the figure sitting at the table, his back to her. “Tell me what you want or I shoot you right here.”

“We need your help.”

She recognizes his voice. “Ryan Fletcher.” Alex lowers her gun but doesn’t put it away. He’s no threat. She could take him in a fight with her hands in cuffs and a blindfold on. Still, there’s no reason to be incautious.

He holds up his empty hands. “May I stand?”

“Alright.”

He gets up from the chair, turns to face her, hands still raised. “Hello, Alex. You look well.”

He’s oddly formal, serious. Nikita seems to like them that way. The more solemn to begin with, the more pleasure she can take when she makes them smile and laugh. And of course she gets them to lighten up, to let go and enjoy themselves, because she’s Nikita, and she’s irresistible, and Alex hates her all the more for such thorough seductions and herself for being such an easy mark. “How was prison?”

“Rough, let’s leave it at that.”

He does look tired. “Was it Nikita?”

“Who got me out? Yes, of course.”

“Only fair, since she’s the reason they put you in,” she reminds him.

He shakes his head. “I made my own choice.”

She wants to ask him if he ever doubted, if he ever had trouble sleeping, struggled with nightmares, worried he’d be there until he died, that he’d trusted the wrong person, but she won’t. He’s not her friend. She doesn’t need friends to get the job done. “What do you want?”

“Nikita’s missing.”

The room doesn’t spin and her legs don’t buckle, but his words divide her, break her back into two, the girl who cares and the woman who doesn’t. Or is it the other way round? “What’s that got to do with me?”

“You haven’t heard anything?”

“No.”

“And you’re not,” he clears his throat, “responsible?”

Asshole. Does he think she’s some amateur? “If I were, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“That’s a no,” he says, softly.

She can leave it like this. He’ll go. She’ll move to a new location, figure out what mistakes she made that led him to her, and then try not to think about any of this again. “When was your last communication with her?”

“She spoke with Michael on the seventh.”

“It’s been two weeks?” Alex wants to hit him, fucking idiot. “That’s too long. Why did you wait? There’s just no way.” But there has to be. Nikita. Christ. “Yeah, ok. Take me with you. If she’s still - then I can help you find her. Michael knows I can.”

They don’t talk much during the drive, they don’t need to, he’s already spoken to Michael, who wants to brief her in person. She watches Ryan at the wheel, how often he checks the rearview mirror. “Don’t look back, someone might be gaining on you,” she says.

He smirks. “It’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you.”

They stop for gas outside of Richmond, Virginia. Alex gets out of the car to walk away the stiffness in her legs. It’s starting to drizzle and she pushes the hood of her sweatshirt off, closes her eyes and lifts her face to the rain. She doesn’t move until she hears a car pulling up behind her. “Hey!” Ryan calls. The window’s down and he’s on the phone. “Get over here.”

Her hand slips when she tries to pull the door handle. He leans over and opens it for her. She slumps down into the passenger seat, catches herself, rights her posture. It doesn’t matter, she assures herself. Whatever it is, you’ll get over it. Ryan ends the call, puts his phone back in his coat pocket. “What is it?” Alex asks, looking down at her hands. Is it done? Finished? Could it ever be?

“Michael’s got her.”

Ryan’s hand covers her knee. Her father once did the same. Don’t cry, little Alexandra, don’t worry, don’t be scared. Be strong, always be strong, and everything will fall into place, the world will bend itself to your will. “Is she ok?”

“She will be.”

Alex turns her face away from him. She’s sickened by her own relief, by the flare of hope lying to her, saying she can start her whole life over, right now, if she wants. “Can I see her? I want to see her.”

Nikita’s curled up on her side, under the covers in bed. Alex sits on the edge of the mattress. When Nikita stretches out her hand, she takes it. “Are you ok?” Nikita rasps.

Alex snorts. “That’s my line.”

Nikita squeezes her hand. “Dude, all I need is a long nap and I’m good to go. Don’t worry about me.”

Alex squeezes back, too hard, she knows, but she can’t help it. “You almost died.” Alex has reconsidered, considered, every night, every morning, what Nikita did for her, that the first time she ever disobeyed Division’s orders was to save her. Some part of her can never stop reaching out for that Nikita, the one who risked her own life to shelter and protect a little girl she didn’t even know. “I was afraid you were dead and all I kept thinking was, I don’t forgive you, ok? I mean, I can’t, not yet. Maybe not ever. But, god, I love you. I want you to know that hasn’t changed.”

“Alex, stay here. Stay with us.”

Us. What if someday Nikita has to choose between Alex and Michael? What then? “I - I can’t.”

Ryan takes her to the nearest train station, leaves her in the parking lot. “Take care of yourself,” he says, looking at her like she’s a kid, not a fierce fighter who could kill him with her bare hands. It’s because he trusts Nikita. He’s devoted to Nikita, and Nikita trusts Alex, not in the details, but in the whole. If Alex asked Nikita to lay her life in her hands, Nikita would. Nikita would let Alex put a gun against her temple, believing she would never actually pull the trigger.

For a moment, she falters, almost reaches out to him, ready to say: I changed my mind, take me back, I don’t care about this path anymore, not when I have to walk it alone, not when it’s taking me away from everyone I love. But it’s only the impulse of a moment, the longing of her better self, the version she’s already abandoned, shoved down deep enough that she rarely hears its cries. They took such a risk, just bringing her to their base. And now they’ll have to leave it, Michael and Nikita are probably already on the move, and it’s not only because Alex is no longer on their side. Even if she stood with them, they can’t trust anyone. Allies can be caught as easily as enemies, tortured, perhaps forced to reveal what they swore to take with them to their graves. She has a premonition, a vision of Fletcher, dead, bleeding out onto the snow beneath his body. “You should know,” she says, coming around the front of the car to face him, “that none of us are going to make it out of this alive.”

He swallows. “Yeah. I kind of figured that out for myself, but thanks for the tip.” Alex nods, holds out her hand. He takes off his leather glove to shake, and she looks him in the eye, suddenly unwilling to let go. “It’s ok,” he says, and she doesn’t know why that makes tears rise up, threaten to spill out onto her cheeks. She just keeps staring at him, willing him to tell her more. “She’ll come back for you, if that’s what you want. She won’t leave you.”

What she wants? She doesn’t always know what that is. Sometimes, though, Alex wishes, wishes that Nikita was neither crazy intensity, not the woman who saved her life, twice, nor the woman who killed her parents, that she was just Nikita, just this beautiful, gutsy woman that Alex could love without pain and live for without guilt. Wishes are for the weak. She knows that. She knows better. She breaks the contact, pulls her hand away. “Good bye,” she says.

“I’ll see you.”

“Good bye,” she repeats.

When she reaches the door of the station she glances back but he’s already gone.


End file.
